


Feet that Wander Have Gone

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: To Home Afar [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: “Run away with me.”Bilbo turns to see who would say such a cowardly thing only to realize it was his own traitorous mouth which has run away with his heart: They’re already down the mountain and past Mirkwood by the time he realizes no one has objected.“What a delightful solution my dear boy,” says Gandalf who looks to the east where the eagles are skimming the horizon.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: To Home Afar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092416
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	Feet that Wander Have Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I was definitely going to wait til next Monday to post this, but it's done so why not? I'm probably going to get a few hundred words into part three while I'm on a roll today. World's crazy out there, so I'm gonna hide in this AU. 
> 
> Maybe I'll start outlining my other Hobbit fics too... or Witcher ones. I go back to work on Saturday and DO NOT want to at all ugh. I plan on spending tomorrow watching the cast audio commentary for the extended editions of LoTR because it's what I deserve lol. So whatever I don't get done today will probably wait til Sunday. 
> 
> A quick thank you to those who've read part one! Hope you enjoy this part as well~

“ _Things are drawing towards the end now,  
unless I am mistaken.  
There’s an unpleasant time just in front of you,  
but keep your heart up_!”

“Has reason abandoned you? You could have been killed!”

Bilbo’s feet slid on the ice but he steadied himself with spite and spun to face the dwarf with enough gal to admonish him. Thorin Oakenshield made quite the sight; rivulets of blood racing down his forehead to cut themselves upon his jaw, clenched in fury as the wind whipped his hair every which direction it pleased. Orcrist looked at home in his hand, dripping with the Pale Orc’s blood on crushed ice. A mighty sight indeed and if Bilbo were anyone else perhaps he would be frightened of the incensed glare in Thorin’s eyes.

“Oh go growl at someone else Thorin, King under the mountain cause you will not bully me into contrition for saving your life: Again I might add!”

“And what if you had been killed?” Thorin roared; his voice echoing among the snow-covered peaks surrounding them. “What if you had died for the very dwarf who nearly threw you into Death’s greedy hands not eight hours past?”

The raw grief in Thorin’s voice shatters Bilbo’s anger and he carefully slides closer until his hands cling to cold armor. It shines beneath the sun which peaks its curious head from behind the gray clouds to see what happens next. The smell of smoke and burning flesh filters up from the field below, causing Bilbo’s nose to wrinkle with distaste. His head throbs beneath the cut he can feel saturating his golden curls a vibrant red. Thorin reaches up as if to stem the flow, but he needn’t trouble himself; Bilbo can feel the tacky pull of clotting blood along his brow.

“How could I go on without you?” Thorin finally asks, deciding to run the back of his scared hand along Bilbo’s flushed cheek.

“You’ve survived far worse Thorin,” says Bilbo gently into the wind as if his words could travel the lengths he could not.

“Your people depend on you Thorin,” says Bilbo when he spots Dwalin racing up the slopes to meet them.

“I’m just a hobbit,” says Bilbo ignoring the wounded sound that comes unbidden from Thorin’s cracked lips, dry from the altitude.

Dwalin stops and turns his head out of respect for his king when he hears Thorin’s harsh confession though he does not temper his smirk when he hears Bilbo’s hitched breath and soft whimper seconds later.

“No my love, you are much more.”

Bilbo wants to live in the way Thorin cups his face. He wants to devour the lips pressed so tenderly against his own as if he were fragile instead of flesh and blood and an ache so deep if feels endless. His fingers twitch painfully, stretched white and bloodless around the sharp edges of Thorin’s armor until he cannot feel beyond his wrists.

It is the knowledge that Dwalin is present which keeps Bilbo tethered to the moment instead of lost in the numerous daydreams Thorin’s kiss inspires. He is simultaneously lying next to a dying fire not two feet from Thorin and also gasping into the cold air when their kiss reluctantly breaks. No fantasy could come close to how overwhelmed Bilbo feels when their noses brush; a kunik to spare their current company additional embarrassment.

“If I tell ya Gloin owes me two sapphires and a topaz would you front me what I owe my brother?”

Thorin’s laugh feels forced as it climbs past his bruised ribs, but it’s Bilbo who finds the words first despite his flustered sensibilities.

“I’d think you have treasure enough to satisfy Balin, what with the mountain being reclaimed and all.”

“Fair enough burglar,” Dwalin winks and Bilbo sputters around the audacity of it all until the levity is leveled by the cries of the wounded below them. Dwalin studies the body of the Pale Orc and Bilbo subtly shifts until he has taken some of Thorin’s weight in hopes of easing the injuries he cannot see. Thorin presses his forehead against the side of Bilbo’s head in thanks until he sees the blood around the hobbit’s ear.

“You need a healer.”

Dwalin and Bilbo snort in synch, “Says the pot.”

Thorin’s reply is lost to the cries of Fili who is accompanied by Gandalf.

“Thank the stone you’re both alright!” says Fili who is losing blood with every step, but is determined to embrace them both.

“You saved me and my brother,” says Fili and Bilbo can flush no further beneath the weight of dwarven awe.

“Thranduil and Bard are looking for answers,” says Fili reluctant to burden his uncle further than the war already has.

Thorin swears and when he looks into Fili’s eyes he thinks of his sister who would grieve to know the madness nearly claimed him and her sons. He thinks of his father and his father’s father who bled for the mountain as if its treasures could replace flesh and honor. Gold cannot embrace you on the cold road nor fill your head with songs amongst the fire: Cured of the ailment which claimed the soul of his kin Thorin feels ancient and reborn in the same stroke.

“I broke my word,” Thorin confesses like a man lining up for the rope, “by rights my life and rule is forfeit.”

Bilbo is gripped by terror; his frame trembling beneath the weight of uncertainty until he feels as if underwater. He does not hear Fili’s sharp denial nor Dwalin’s thunderous growl threatening the armies of men and elves who would take his king. He sees Gandalf’s lips move, but he doesn’t know the wizard is offering to speak on Thorin’s behalf – all Bilbo can hear is the deafening beat of his own heart.

“Run away with me.”

Bilbo turns to see who would say such a cowardly thing only to realize it was his own traitorous mouth which has run away with his heart: They’re already down the mountain and past Mirkwood by the time he realizes no one has objected.

“What a delightful solution my dear boy,” says Gandalf who looks to the east where the eagles are skimming the horizon.

“We’ll tell them you fell slaying your old foe,” says Dwalin who silently designs his plan to escape the mountain and see them safely west.

“Only the company will know the truth – and mother of course,” says Fili whose eyes shine with tears he cannot bring himself to shed just yet.

The masses below must witness his grief if their lie is to be believed.

In a flurry of assurances and feathers which fall from the sky like snowflakes, Bilbo has half a mind to call off the whole venture until he sees the way Thorin looks beneath the golden sun. A weight, an invisible crown, has left him unburdened and able to see with unclouded eyes what the journey to Erebor had tried to show him many times. Gandalf assures Bilbo that the eagles will take them to Beorn’s where they will make the journey on foot to Rivendell afterwards. Upon a garbled objection, Gandalf is quick to promise Dwalin that the journey west will not be a hasty one: Injuries take time to heal.

Thorin turns from Bilbo to place two solid hands on Fili’s shoulders and whatever passes from uncle to nephew remains unknown to the hobbit, but he does not mind it when he can feel the pride in Thorin’s voice as it wavers past pain and unease.

“It has been an honor, King Fili. Give my regards to the rest of the company – let them know they have my deepest and fondest affection.”

Fili engulfs Bilbo in a hug that tugs at their wounds until they can bear the sting no longer. Bilbo fusses over the gash that runs the length of Fili’s right temple, mourning the way it threatens the dwarf’s eye while Fili hisses when he sees a similar wound clotting along Bilbo’s hairline.

“May the hair on your toes never fall out, Uncle Bilbo.”

Eyes stinging, Bilbo cannot withhold his broken laugh as he remembers the night he spoke of Hobbit insults and well-wishes. The memory of that night engulfs them all until the taste of wood smoke coats their tongues like sugar.

“May your beard never grow thin, dear Fili and may your axe always be sharp, dear Dwalin.”

Gandalf helps Thorin onto the back of his eagle after he passes Orcrist to Fili.

“Entomb it if you must, the Arkenstone as well. Such trinkets should never see the light of day, but you are stronger than me Fili – as always I trust your judgement.”

Dwalin lends his strength to Fili who staggers beneath the exhaustion that threatens to claim them all if they delay longer. Bilbo fairs better on the back of his eagle and apologizes when his grip tightens to compensate for the fact he can barely see past his tears. His stomach leaps into his throat when the eagle rises from the frozen ground and it feels like luck he is not thrown off. The wind is both a blessing and a curse on his torn skin, but before they are lost in cloud cover he calls down to the dwarves leaning on each other for strength.

“This is not goodbye,” he swears.

“We will see each other again.”

It is a promise he intends to keep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Bilbo sleeps the whole way to Beorn’s.

He barely stirs when the shifter moves him from downy feathers to crinkled hay. A chill pulls him back to his body and it takes him a moment to realize it’s water running down his sore limbs. Bilbo’s eyes remain uncooperative, but his mouth shapes Thorin’s name as easy as his lungs draw breath.

“Thorin is at your side, rest now my friend.”

Gandalf’s assurance sends Bilbo back into sleep’s waiting arms and he knows no nightmares or dreams of any sort as the sun rises and sets in the background. Fur tickles his nose but it’s the scent of fresh bread and honey that inevitably calls Bilbo into the waking world a day later. Giant bees fill the air with their familiar buzz and for a moment the entire battle feels like a night terror from years past. Thorin slumbers on with an untroubled face and deep breaths that speak of healed ribs and clear lungs. Pulling himself from the warmth provided by Thorin’s body proves difficult, but when Bilbo’s stomach grows that settles it.

Beorn is nowhere to be found, but Gandalf greets Bilbo happily at the large table, “I was beginning to think you’d sleep your life away my friend.”

“A tempting notion to be sure,” Bilbo muses, “but what kind of hobbit would I be to forsake such a fine meal?”

“What kind of hobbit indeed!”

They eat in comfortable silence, Bilbo content to absorb the peaceful hush that Beorn’s corner of the world radiates with ease. Beyond the trees there are monsters and vile relatives – all wanting a piece of Bilbo and Thorin respectively.

‘ _They cannot harm us here_ ,’ Bilbo tells himself between his first and second cup of tea, ‘ _Here we are safe._ ’

“I have sent word ahead to Lord Elrond and he is expecting us within a fortnight. Afterwards I will see you and Thorin to the border of the Shire where I imagine my assistance will no longer be required.”

Their plates cleaned, Bilbo hums around his pipe and watches smoke circles drift into the sky only to blend into the fluffy clouds above. No longer driven by a deadline, he toys with the idea of taking time to explore Rivendell, though he doubts Thorin will wish to linger long in the realm of elves. The rolling hills of the Shire exist in his mind as if painted permanently in memory – the desire to be home grips Bilbo suddenly and without mercy.

“I cannot begin to imagine what will be awaiting me at Bag End, but rest assured Gandalf, I will handle it.”

Bilbo hadn’t had time to leave specific instructions and though the venture was deemed perilous he hadn’t considered a future where he didn’t return. There’s no doubt in his mind that those Sackville-Bagginses were trying their damndest to sink their claws into Bag End’s finely finished furniture and polished silverware. Perhaps he’d been too hasty; dashing out the door and down the road as if a dragon was hot on his heels, but it cannot be helped.

“And I’m certain Thorin will glare anyone who gives me grief into submission.”

Gandalf’s chuckle blends with his own until the sound of mirth calls another into the bright clearing. Thorin walks with a limp, but it is less pronounced than Bilbo expected for the amount of blood he’d lost. Other company fades into the background and Bilbo is helpless against the blush he feels painting his cheeks when Thorin smiles.

“Surely you’re capable of fending off your fellow hobbits, Master Baggins.”

Thorin’s voice is thick with sleep, but his teasing words feed the twin flames Bilbo rushes to douse with quick hands. Gandalf’s amusement is palpable but the wizard wisely keeps his own counsel and sees himself from the table in hopes of finding their host. Thorin slides into his unoccupied seat and doesn’t bother hiding his cheer at Bilbo’s lingering flush. He feels like an inexperienced tween, fluttering about like a butterfly – blooming beneath the attentions of a paramour like some waifish wildflower. Bilbo is both embarrassed and thrilled in equal measure, but he refuses to feed Thorin’s ego.

“Well of course I am! I’ll have you know Thorin Oakenshield I was navigating tectonic lineages long before you darkened my doorstep. Dwarven politics, ha! Nothing compared to a midsummer hootenanny.”

Bilbo puffs his pipe glaring at the horizon as if it had offended him instead of the dwarf who wisely concedes between bites of blueberry muffin. When a calloused palm slides along the knotted wood, Bilbo sighs wistfully before closing the gap: Their fingers intertwine like withered, stubborn vines. Time loses its power in the following moments which stretch before the pair like lazy rivers. Thorin studies Bilbo and Bilbo studies the wandering clouds, startling when his knuckles are kissed reverently.

“I fear I’ve wandered into a dream,” Thorin confesses, eyes darting away from the question in Bilbo’s. “I could not survive waking beneath the dampened stone and you spirited away.”

“What are the odds of us having the same dream I wonder.”

Refusing to be burdened by previous offences, Bilbo turns to give Thorin his full attention. After laying his dying pipe gently upon the table, he uses his free hand to smooth Thorin’s brow until the dwarf pulls back – a light dusting of color on his cheeks.

“My transgressions…” Thorin begins, but Bilbo smothers his self-flagellation with firm lips. Calloused palms slide up Bilbo’s weathered coat and tangle in his golden curls. Warmth floods Bilbo’s limbs, racing with his pounding blood until he feels embers burst into flame in his belly. Breaking away for breath feels criminal so they do not part long; Bilbo taking time to place tender kisses upon Thorin’s face from chin to forehead until Thorin pleads with him to return.

“Even if this were a good dream,” Thorin professes into Bilbo’s ear which tingles beneath his breath, “I’d go to the halls of my ancestors a satisfied dwarf for knowing your taste.”

Bilbo’s entire body is alight with a fire hotter than the deepest depths of earth; the sincerity of Thorin’s words threatening to fill his heart until it burst. He clings to Thorin’s shoulders until he is shifted into a sturdy lap. Whimpers fall from Bilbo’s lips like rain in a thunderstorm with every second their lips part and Thorin seems determined to swallow them all so no ears but his own may hear them.

“If you’re going to mate please spare my table, I eat there too you know.”

Arousal doused violently by Beorn’s voice, Bilbo yelps and leaps from Thorin’s grip barely managing to land on his two feet. Mortification steals his words, but not Thorin’s who curses the changeling in his native tongue until his anger abates. Beorn watches, unimpressed as Bilbo eventually gathers his wits enough to stammer out an apology.

“Peace little bunny,” says Beorn, “you’ll shake out of your skin if you don’t breathe.”

Bilbo very much wishes he’d stop breathing all together so he could escape the nightmare sooner, however Thorin runs a calming hand along his back. Slowly, Bilbo’s lungs inflate as they’re supposed to and his heart begins to slow with each exhale. Before he can apologize further for their behavior Gandalf arrives with word from Erebor. The crow lands on Thorin’s shoulder and takes it time running its beak through his hair. It’s an odd sight to be sure, but it distracts from the embarrassment Bilbo feels slowly leaking from his pores.

“Fili has been crowned King,” says Gandalf, “and he was able to convinced those on the battlefield of your passing.”

It is a bittersweet victory. Bilbo tries hard to push the company’s faces out of his mind – not wanting to picture their reactions to his foolhardy plan. Were they disappointed? Were they mad? Perhaps they’d never want to see Bilbo ever again for stealing their king. However, memories of their journey surface unbidden and shame flits across Bilbo’s face for thinking ill of his friends.

The smell of Bombur’s cooking fills his nose and makes his stomach rumble. The raunchy limericks from Nori’s songs float through his ears turning them pink. The smirk Bofur wore whenever he caught Thorin and Bilbo in each other’s orbit flashes before his eyes and Bilbo catches the same forlorn smile on Thorin’s lips as if he too is remembering the same things.

“It is for the best,” says Thorin and he takes Bilbo’s hand in his, “there are more import things I wish to live for now.”

The affection in his voice threatens to suffocate Bilbo as his heart quickens beneath his tender chest. Stringing together a suitable reply is difficult due to his heavy tongue and desire to disappear completely when he feels the satisfied gaze of Gandalf and Beorn. Miles they marched together; some with a great distance between them and others they practically were the same person. Desire and trepidation dance to a tumultuous tune within Bilbo’s heart until he feels the need to offer a final escape.

“Bag End is no mountain and I’m hardly a fearsome dragon,” Bilbo warns.

“No my love, you are much more.”

**Author's Note:**

> They'll get to The Shire eventually lol I'm a tender mess of longing myself these days so I wanted to write something that satisfies that part of me. I'm trying to figure out what all I want from this verse - definitely them raising Frodo and courting/wedding where dwarves overtake Bag End - but beyond that... *shrug*
> 
> Quick side note: A kunik is another term for eskimo kiss! Pretty sure that term needs to fade into obscurity, but it's still a cute way to show affection. I could use some affection actually.... lol 
> 
> I hope you all are taking care of yourselves out there; unplug if you have to, eat chocolate and watch romcoms if that pleases you, block negative people (be them friends/family) if they upset you, and breathe.


End file.
